depression

Drowning in purposelessness

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For I lay my life as a toast,
to a deep deathful slumber.
For no passion ignites my heart,
and no art seem worthwhile.
For no dream seem worth chasing,
and no beauty well defined.

My beloved Typewriter hit the wall

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They say: Once someone is a self-destructionist, he will always go forward from there. The cuts baring the soft skin and that power one holds in that instant, make all the pain that follow through worth something. I know that power very well, through various people I have came across,and  recently I got a muse for this poem from a guy, totally unknown to me.

 

I took it in my hand
stroke the plastic,
I smile winsomely
And then throw it hard against the wall,
quite irrelevant and drastic,
It flew as the centrifugal force upon it befalls.

I pick the white keys
clench them in my hand
My blood rushes through, faster
I let myself stomp my heart
Tonight let’s paint the world
in bleak hues.